Hold My Pitchfork, Karen: Satanists and the Myth of the Unloving Parent

Alright, listen up, you rowdy rabble of curious minds— it’s time to crush some wild myths. Seems some folks out there are spinning yarns about Satanists chucking their kids to the mercy of rabid badgers. Let me grab my bullhorn and lay it out plain: That’s a load of steaming nonsense. And if there’s anyone fit to set the record straight, it’s yours truly—the grumpy Satanic atheist with a penchant for calling out absurdity wherever it rears its furry little head.

First off, let’s drop the Hallmark movie tropes. Throwing yourself on a metaphorical grenade for your kid isn’t some sacred decree. It’s narrative schmaltz. Most people, whether they rock pentagrams or cross necklaces, know the power of strategic thinking. I mean, seriously—why feed yourself to a badger when you could outthink the damn thing? Outwit, outlast, outplay, folks. (Yes, that was a “Survivor” reference. Deal with it.)

Now, onto the “Satanists can’t love” malarkey. I know, I know—the imagery of black candles, ritual chanting, and leather jackets makes for great storytelling. But we’re not some soulless legion cooking up infant-stealing shenanigans. I love me some dark imagery, but come on— my chili with dark chocolate and habaneros is about the spiciest thing I’ve got cooking. (If you want that recipe, though, slide into my DMs.)

Let’s talk about the real deal: Individualism. Responsibility. Freedom. That’s what Satanism’s all about. No one’s raising tiny prophets here—we’re raising kids to think, question, and carve their own paths. We’re equipping them to face the world armed with fire-breathing wit, not blind obedience.

Picture this: You’re raising a dragon. Do you chuck yourself at every problem in its way? No, you don’t. You teach that dragon to sharpen its claws, scorch a goblin or two, and maybe throw in a few devastating one-liners. And when the time comes, that dragon? It handles its business like a pro. That’s the essence of Satanist parenting—empowerment, not martyrdom. (Though, for real, that chili makes a great post-victory snack.)

Next time some misguided soul tries to throw that tired old “Satanist parent” stereotype at you, just laugh and say, “Sweetie, my love runs deep—black leather jackets, skeptical side-eyes, and all.” Because we’re not here to raise sheep—we’re here to raise bold, free minds that will roar through this world.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a dragon to train and a pot of chili to stir. Don’t forget the habaneros—trust me, it’s the only way to live.

P.S. If you catch me at the park with my kid sporting tiny horns and a “Dark Lord in Training” hoodie, don’t panic—it’s just tag, not indoctrination. We’re probably debating deep philosophy or the ethics of pineapple on pizza. Spoiler: Pineapple belongs on pizza, you culinary heretics.

P.P.S. One more thing: mention the badger thing again, and I can’t guarantee your eyebrows will make it out unscorched. You’ve been warned.